One bit his cartridge till his lip
Grew black as winter sky,

But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

O never saw I sight like that!
The sergeant flung down flag,
Even the fifer bound his brow
With a wet and bloody rag,

Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,
But never made reply,

Until he sobbed out once again,

Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a shout that flew to God,
They strode into the fray :

I saw their red plumes join and wave,
But slowly melt away.

The last who went-a wounded man-
Bade the poor boy good-bye,
And said, "We men of the Forty-third
Teach you the way to die!"

I never saw so sad a look

As the poor youngster cast,
When the hot smoke of cannon
In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.
Earth shook, and Heaven answered:
I watched his eagle eye,

As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third
Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a musket for a crutch,

He leaped into the fight;

I, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might, But, proudly beating on his drum, A fever in his eye,

I heard him moan

The Forty-third

Taught me the way to die!"

They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's
Who at his bidding bled.

They hung a medal round his neck,
And closed his dauntless eye;

On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third
Taught him the way to die!"

"Tis forty years from then till now— The grave gapes at my feet

Yet when I think of such a boy

I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry,

And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

(By permission of the Author.)

36.-ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

ALEXANDER POPE.

[Alexander Pope was born in Lombard-street, London, where his father carried on business as a linendraper, in 1688. Both his parents being Roman Catholics, he was placed at the age of eignt under the care of one Taverner, a priest, who taught him the rudiments of Greek and Latin. At the age of twelve he removed with his parents to Binfield, in Windsor Forest; and about the same time he wrote his "Ode on Solitude a most remarkable production for so young a genius. Here he studied Waller, Spenser, and Dryden, and at the age of sixteen wrote his "Pastorals," which attracted the attention of the leading wits of the time. His "Essay on Criticism" was published in 1711, and the "Messiah" appeared on the 1st of September in the same year. This was followed by the "Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," which appeared originally in "The Spectator." About the same time he wrote "The Rape of the Lock." After bringing out "Abelard and Eloisa," "The Temple of Fame," and "Windsor Forest," he undertook the translation of the "Iliad," which he published by subscription, and netted above 50007. With a part of this he purchased his house at Twickenham, so long after fondly recognised as "Pope's Villa." On the completion of the "Iliad" he undertook the "Odyssey ;" but a spice of commercial enterprise was mixed up with his literary labours, for he not only got it subscribed to liberally, but he employed other learned men (among them Broome, Fenton, and Parnell) to assist him in his work. In 1729 he published his great ethical epic, the "Essay on Man." In 1737 he printed his "Letters," by subscription, and made money by them, but the publication was against all the tenets of literary honour and gentlemanly breeding. At the time of his death he was engaged in preparing a complete edition of his works. He died May 30th, 1744, aged 56.]

DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing :
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain,
Let the warbling lute complain :
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

While, in more lengthened notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skies

Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,

In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;

;

Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away,

In a dying, dying fall.

By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;
Or when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus rouses from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
List'ning Envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions bear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms!

And when through all the infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,

What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

Dreadful gleams,

Dismal screams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortured ghosts!

But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see the tortured ghosts respire,
See shady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

The furies sink upon their iron beds,

And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flow'rs;

By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Ör amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes' armèd shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's prayer:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,

A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Though fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in mæanders,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies

;

Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries---

Ah see, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung;
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue :

Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate's severest rage disarm;
Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia foun 1,

And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear:
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
And angels lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n :
His numbers raised a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heav'n.

37.-ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR THE POWER OF MUSIC.

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Dryden was born at Aldwinkle, Northampton, in 1651. He was educated at Winchester School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He came to London in 1654, and acted as secretary to his relation, Sir Gilbert Pickering, who was one of Cromwell's council. Like the celebrated Vicar of Bray, Dryden shifted his politics in conformity with the ins and outs of that stirring period: he wrote a laudatory ode on the death of the Protector, and a panegyric on the restoration of Charles II. In 1667 he was appointed poet-laureate, with a salary of 2001. a year. None of his plays have kept the stage, but his translation of Virgil is undying, and has immortalized him. On the accession of James II. he became a Roman Catholic, and, like all perverts, was loudest in the abuse of his old faith. It was not until the abdication of James, when he was obliged to write for bread, that his finest compositions were written. He died in 1700, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.]

"TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won,

By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were plac'd around;

Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crown'd.

The lovely Thais by his side

Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.